Not Waving But Drowning
by Altego
Summary: First fanfic. I wrote this before the 'wedding' was announced, so any similarities are purely coincidental. Rated T for mild swearing and eventual Johnlock, though nothing explicit. Also has a re-imagining of a minor ACD character, with a slight name change.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Don't own, wish I did**

"If you'd all join me in a toast. To John and Mary, I deduce that your marriage will be a happy one."

A ripple of laughter ran around the room at the end of Lestrade's impromptu speech and the fond reference to a certain consulting detective, as the guests raised their glasses to the newly wed couple. Well, all the guests except Sherlock Holmes, who sat scowling like a sullen child in the corner.

John had been disappointed in Sherlock's petulant response to his engagement, seeing how they were supposed to be best friends. But then he had to remind himself once more that this was Sherlock Holmes. Emotion and especially selfless emotion, was a rarity in him and usually something only John could detect. Also, he had no time for sentiment and just didn't understand why two people would want to spend their lives together in boring domesticity. He'd asked John why he'd want to give up the life he had now and tie himself to someone who'd put restrictions on him. John had tried to explain the finer points of wanting marriage and maybe a family, just someone to share his day with who might listen to him and be considerate to his needs.

"Don't I do that?" Sherlock had asked, with genuine confusion.

"Well, no, you don't. You go for hours, sometimes days, hardly paying me any attention at all and then when you do pay me attention it's usually because you're dragging me through the back alleys of London at 4am having stopped me eating or sleeping for the last 24 hours. Amazing you are, considerate you aren't. Besides, it's not just that. I want someone I can share a bed with too, someone who'll give me physical affection and share emotions with me." Sherlock had given him an inscrutable look at this point which had sent a flash of something through John's chest, a tightness, but a warm feeling too.

"There are two problems with that where you're concerned, Sherlock." John had continued "One, you're a bloke and I'm not gay and two, you don't do 'sentiment'" John waggled his fingers for inverted commas, "therefore, even though you're my best friend and I love you, I'm afraid you don't really fit the profile of what I'm looking for."

"Hmmff!" Sherlock had huffed his response and then suddenly looked up again at John. "You … you love me?"

"Yes, as a friend, Sherlock, as a bloody friend. Let's wind down the bromance jeez!" And with that he'd laughed and gone to make himself another cup of tea; even being a guest in what was now just Sherlock's flat, he was forced to make his own drinks. However, inwardly he was cursing himself for letting that phrase slip out. He'd meant it, of course, but it got him thinking about saying those words in another context and how Sherlock might be thinking that too. After all, if the man was anything, he was probably gay, but he didn't really understand nuances of emotion. Would he be able to separate the types of love John meant? At any rate, by the time John had made his tea and gone back to the sitting room, Sherlock was peering back into his microscope and didn't seem concerned.

After this conversation they'd not spoken again about John's engagement, so John had resigned himself to the fact that Sherlock's refusal to acknowledge it, and by association, acknowledge Mary, was him giving his blessing by omission; after all if he'd had any objections to Mary he wouldn't have hesitated to air them. Also, he'd turned up at the wedding, which was something. Right?

There John went again, agonising over Sherlock's thoughts and feelings when he should be concentrating on those of his wife. He lifted his glass, smiled and kissed Mary and decided to interpret the consulting detective's sulk as him saying "John, I hate parties and people." In many ways, John felt blessed; considering the last few years, he was amazed that he could feel this happy once more.

It had been six months since Sherlock's return and John was still getting used to the feeling of having him around again. Sometimes he'd have to pinch himself to check he wasn't dreaming and that his wonderful, brilliant, amazing friend was back in his life and they were chasing down criminals together once more. However, this time, John had other obligations besides fighting a war on the streets of London; he had Mary and this made him doubly happy. His best friend and his hope for the future, his mad detective and his lovely partner, the thrill of danger and the bliss of domesticity. John sometimes woke in the night wondering when it was going to go wrong. But six months had passed and so far, everything was fine, great, brilliant really.

Anyway, Sherlock couldn't really complain when he returned to find that John had moved out of 221B and into a house with his fiancé; he had left John alone and a shadow of his former self. Several months after Sherlock's 'death' Harry had turned up on John's doorstep with a friend of a friend who had a case and the distraction had been a welcome one for both Sherlock and John, despite them being thousands of miles apart.

John had been horrified at first, him, solve a case, without Sherlock? But Mary Morstan's distress and her worry for her father had been palpable and John had never been able to ignore a crying woman, especially one as beautiful as Mary. Of course, Mycroft had kept Sherlock in the loop and Sherlock had kept dropping subtle clues into John's lap, via Molly, until Mary's father had been found. Unfortunately the man had been murdered, but his killer was caught and John and Mary were brought closer together by their shared grief over the tragic deaths of those they loved. It was only a matter of time before they fell in love with each other. What John didn't know was that, when the news reached Sherlock of John's new found happiness, Sherlock Holmes had decided that he was never going to return to his old life.

But then Sebastian Moran discovered that he was alive and John was in danger once more, thus Sherlock's hand was forced and he'd returned to save John and dispatch Moran. It had been okay for a while, but now he found himself more and more sickened by John's obsession with sentiment, more and more disconcerted by the silence in 221B and more and more lost during cases, without those thunderbolt revelations that John Hamish Watson would unwittingly inspire, by talking to him, or rather at him, often over a cup of tea.

Sherlock had been considering another disappearance, but for one thing, John's happiness.

After the inevitable anger over Sherlock's fake suicide, John had held his best friend close for an uncomfortable amount of time and emphatically stated that Sherlock was not allowed to leave him like that ever again. The implication of what might happen to John if he did was unspoken, but understood. Therefore Sherlock was trapped, having to share his blogger with this … person… which was affecting the work and yet not allowed to break the chains that held him in this limbo and exist once more for the work and the work only. In short, Sherlock was finding the situation intolerable. But it also amazed him, he'd never had the desire to do something as unselfish as this before, to stay miserable, just so another could be happy.

John was oblivious. Of course he knew Sherlock wasn't happy with him moving out, but without being in the flat to notice that the consulting detective's odd behaviour had become very odd indeed, he didn't realise that the Sherlock he was seeing at crime scenes and during cases, was the one approaching his usual self, simply because the work took the edge off the abject misery he was feeling.

Mycroft Holmes had been observing his brother for several months, but he'd been observing him more intently than ever today and now he decided it was time for action. John was laughing with Mary and Mrs Hudson, likely over something Sherlock related, when Mycroft approached. John looked over and nodded cautiously.

"John, my dear, many congratulations" Mycroft hugged John with a flourish and the shocked army doctor froze in his embrace. Mary noticed her husband's terrified expression and giggled. "May we talk somewhere about a private matter, Dr Watson?" Mycroft said, pulling away from his brother's best friend.

"Must we Mycroft? It's my wedding day!"

"The British Government waits for no man, nor for any wedding my dear doctor. I'm sure your lovely Mary will be alright with Mrs Hudson for a while, won't you my dear?." And Mycroft put on his best Holmesian charm and kissed the woman on the cheek.

Mary smiled and pushed John towards him, "Go on sweetie, it sounds important". Luckily for John, he and Mary were still in a honeymoon phase, where every time John left her for one, or the other of the Holmes brothers, she acquiesced graciously, still referring to John's work with them as 'important'. John did wonder though if, several years down the line, when they had children and struggled to spend quality time together, whether his rushing off at all hours would be quite as well received. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind; surely she'd still understand that he needed this excitement in his life and wouldn't ask him to give it up.

John sighed "Ok, five minutes". He kissed Mary on the cheek, smiled at her and accompanied Mycroft into one of the rooms off the hallway of the hotel they'd hired for the occasion. John turned to speak to him as the door closed behind them.

"Now what's so important that you had to drag …. " John was cut off mid sentence as Mycroft jabbed the end of his umbrella hard into the centre of the scar on John's shoulder. John's cry of pain was swallowed by a blow to his solar plexus, that stole his breath and the next blow fell on his previously weakened leg. His knees gave out, delivering him hard to the wooden floor and he raised a hand to defend himself from further blows, but none came. Mycroft simply stood there, admiring his work until John had stopped groaning. Then the elder Holmes reached out and hauled John Watson back to his feet.

"What the fuck was…?"

"You've destroyed him."

"What?" John was metaphorically floored this time, not sure whether to rub the nicely blooming bruise on his shoulder, the one in his abdomen, or the one on his leg and wondering what the hell Mycroft Holmes was talking about. It was to do with Sherlock, that was certain, but other than this deduction, John was baffled.

"You have left my brother bereft John, I can see it as plainly as I see you now, even if you remain blissfully unaware of this fact. Don't forget, you don't see him every day any more, you have no idea just how erratic his behaviour has become and how little he takes care of himself. Not to mention …"

"Hang on, just … just …" John put his hands up to placate Mycroft, but was afraid for a second that he might get 'umbrella-ed" again. "What's all this 'you've destroyed Sherlock crap?' We weren't bloody married Mycroft, I'm just his friend and friends lead their own lives. Sherlock can see that; he told me he didn't want me to move out, but he said that it was probably healthier for his work and my sanity. I remember that conversation quite clearly thank you, so if you think that I …"

"Oh I don't just _think_ John" Mycroft hissed menacingly now "I know. And you should too. Of course Sherlock isn't going to tell you how much you mean to him, that would be him admitting to _sentiment_" Mycroft spat the word with almost as much disdain as his brother did. "But I know that you mean everything to him. He has linked you with the work and now that link cannot be undone, therefore without you, the work suffers. He has relied on you to take care of him at 221B and now you are gone, Sherlock forgets to take care of himself. Also, he has come to depend upon you simply being there, in his vicinity, and now you are not, he is lost." This speech had seen Mycroft back John into a wall and spit his words with barely disguised anger at the shorter army doctor.

"Bloody hell Mycroft" John suddenly snapped, pushing his accuser away, "It's not as if I've done to him what he did to me. Besides, if he's so dependent on me, why was he able to cope so well alone for …"

"Because he wasn't alone John, he had Molly and he had me."

"Y… you?" A flash of hurt ran through John at this revelation. He had known Sherlock had utilised his faithful admirer to fake his own death and to put him up from time to time, but he'd always assumed that Mycroft had experienced the same guilt and grief that he'd gone through. To discover this wasn't true was one more betrayal in John's eyes, even if Sherlock's reasons for doing what he did had been noble. Ultimately, John felt that Sherlock hadn't trusted him enough to keep a secret and this hurt.

"Well he's still got the two of you, why don't you discuss this with Molly." John made as if to leave then, but Mycroft raised his umbrella in warning and the doctor backed against the wall once more, his expression fierce despite his predicament.

"I'm not sure if you've failed to notice this John, but my brother is home now; he was forced to rely on myself and Molly, he chooses to rely on you. There's a big difference."

"Could've fooled me" John smiled bitterly, "seems he let everyone know he was fine except his supposed best friend."

"He didn't let me know John, I worked it out. I recognised the pseudonym he was using immediately and we found a way to keep in contact. I kept him" Mycroft cleared his throat and had the decency to look embarrassed "aware of your movements."

"You mean you had me stalked?" John stated wearily.

"It was a comfort to him to know you were" Mycroft waved his hand absentmindedly "if not ok, at least alive."

"Jesus, Mycroft, this is fucked up, look, Sherlock's a grown man and a self confessed sociopath, he has my deepest affection as a friend but …"

"Oh come on John, you know as well as I do that my brother is not a sociopath; he has Aspergers. It doesn't take a doctor to work out what that means when you change the most familiar and comfortable environment he's ever known."

John sighed again and looked down, "I suspected as much" and a heavy feeling of guilt settled in his stomach. But then John thought of Mary and the life he was about to build with her and reminded himself that he was just Sherlock's friend, whatever that might mean to that strange and wonderful man; John barely held the distinction of assistant when the game was on.

"But that doesn't alter the fact that I'm not the possession of an autistic savant Mycroft. I have my own life. If I thought he really cared for me then maybe I'd …"

"You don't think my brother cares?"

"Frankly, no Mycroft. He regards me as more tolerable than the rest of humanity and he needs to keep me around because he's comfortable with me and I certainly care for him, which he likes, but no, he doesn't _know_ how to care, only how to possess. That's not his fault I grant you, but …" Mycroft held up a hand then and the pained look on his face stopped John from continuing.

"Let me tell you a story John."

"Mycroft!" John growled in frustration "I need to get back to Mary."

Mycroft's response was to push his umbrella across John's neck, pinning him to the wall. "Let me tell you a story John" He repeated more emphatically and released a choking John Watson, waiting for him to recover his breath before speaking. John knew better than to try and leave.

And Mycroft began …


	2. Chapter 2

…

"Once upon a time there were two boys, Samuel and Victor, both 15 years old. Samuel was a genius; everyone knew this and not many people were comfortable around him. His teachers and parents were fascinated by him, but in the end they realised it was probably best to leave him to his own devices; he was a hard boy to like, let alone love. As for other children, they shunned him as only idiots could. They initially bullied him, until those bullies met with some very unfortunate accidents and illnesses; after that Samuel was left alone. The only people that he could claim as friends were his older brother Michael and Victor, but Michael was away a lot, focusing on some very important work. Samuel had also taken up some work outside of school that was proving promising and the only person to show an interest in this work and his extraordinary intellect was Victor. Victor wasn't a remarkable boy, I grant you, but Samuel saw something in him that made him invaluable, something that made him the equally important half of a greater whole. They were inseparable." Mycroft's eyes had taken on a distant look that held John enraptured in the story, Sherlock had once said that his brother was the best story teller he'd ever known.

"Until one hot summer's day, where Michael had come home for the weekend and had the idea of taking the boys for a picnic by the sea. After they'd eaten Michael fell asleep and Victor came up with the idea of going for a swim. Samuel stopped him at first, at least until he'd calculated the wind speed, the water temperature, the currents, the likelihood of underwater objects, according to ripple pattern. It was all very clever and very accurate and Samuel told Victor that it would be safe in a particular path through the shallows, to small outcrop of rock where they could rest before swimming back. If Samuel had one flaw in his genius, it was that he didn't consider the physical limitations of the human body in his reasoning. The rocks were a long way off, their stomachs were full and muscles unprepared for exercise are subject to cramp." John winced, it didn't take someone with Sherlock's intellect to deduce where this was going.

"Samuel's legs cramped first, causing Victor to turn around and swim back to his friend, holding him upright and shouting to Michael for help. Both boys were good swimmers, but it takes more strength than you realise to swim against a current whilst holding another person. However, the beach was deserted, Michael was a deep sleeper and it took the boys a while to struggle closer to shore to make themselves heard, at which point the cold had gotten the better of them; they were exhausted from their efforts and both boys' limbs were cramping. Again, Samuel hadn't factored in the effect of the water temperature on the body and by this time, the boys had been in the water for almost half an hour. Eventually, Michael woke up and he was on his feet in time to see two floundering teenagers and Victor actually pushing himself away from Samuel, in order to stop him dragging his friend down.

I would like to say that Michael was left with a dilemma over which boy to save first, but that wouldn't be true. There was only one emergency life jacket in sight, so he grabbed it and swam directly to his brother, dragging him back to shore. He didn't look at Victor, he daren't, but beyond the noise of splashing water in his attempt to stay afloat, Victor wasn't making a sound, he knew that Michael would save his brother first. Indeed, his love for Samuel dictated that he wished Michael to do just that, and he'd pushed himself away from his soulmate for that very reason. Samuel, on the other hand, was struggling and cursing Michael, screaming at him to let him drown and to save Victor instead. So Michael had to knock Samuel out, in order to drag him back to shore safely. When he had Samuel on dry land he turned back to rescue Victor …" Mycroft trailed off.

"The bay was empty" John said quietly.

"Indeed Doctor Watson. Victor had drowned." Again, that flash of pain in Mycroft's face and John felt the heavy weight of sorrow settle in his stomach. Mycroft paused for a long time then and looked at a point on the wall behind John, until the army doctor cleared his throat and snapped Mycroft out of his reverie. But he continued more quietly now, a vulnerable edge to his voice.

"The emergency services recovered Victor's body a few hours later. Samuel wrapped himself around his friend's body in the ambulance and refused to let go of him all the way to the morgue. He didn't cry, but Michael did, the paramedics did and the staff who dealt with them at the hospital did, and had it not been for a rather brusque and unemotional pathologist, Samuel might still be there; the man insisted on a sedative to remove the boy from his lab.

In fact, Doctor, Michael never saw Samuel cry over Victor's death; to this day, Samuel has never confirmed how deeply he mourned his friend. But Michael didn't need Samuel to tell him that he cared, he simply observed. He knew Samuel cried, because his eyes were always blue when he'd shed tears and they were a bright blue, every day for two years after Victor's death. Also Samuel was institutionalised for selective mutism and a suicide attempt and just weeks after the incident he was put on suicide watch, remaining in that state for over a year. It took Samuel 18 months to speak again and the first words he uttered were to Michael. Would you like to know what he said to his only brother, John?"

"Sherlock" John couldn't help breathing his friend's name in sorrow, allowing Mycroft to see the tears that had welled up in his eyes during this story. Mycroft had attempted a poorly disguised name change of the main protagonists, but John suspected that this wasn't for his benefit, more to allow Mycroft enough emotional detachment to tell the story.

Mycroft's gaze hardened now, fixing John Watson and pinning him in place just as effectively as an umbrella at his throat. "He said 'I will never forgive you, brother mine, but I believe I am ready to forget.'" And then the pretence was gone; Mycroft found his strength in John's sudden weakness and continued with his story.

"And yet for several years after he was released from the institution, Sherlock was a opium addict. Nothing so tawdry as heroin you understand, but medical grade morphine is quite easily stolen when you have access to a hospital and you are as clever as my brother. But I was cleverer, I had him sectioned again and weaned off the drug, so to speak." John's frowned then, imagining Mycroft employing all sorts of tactics to force Sherlock into complying with rehab. "No, John" Mycroft answered the unspoken question "It wasn't pleasant, but it was necessary for him to be clean so his work could flourish and I know Sherlock appreciates that fact. However, I knew for certain two years ago that Sherlock hadn't forgotten about Victor. I did believe Sherlock was dead, John, until I heard of a fiendishly clever criminal case in Switzerland, solved by one Victor Sigerson, It was then that I knew my brother was alive; there is only one person who would take that name and make it famous in such a fashion."

There was silence for a while then and Mycroft looked more stricken than John had ever seen him look. Even more so than when he thought Sherlock was dead. And all John could think about was their confrontation with Moriarty at the swimming pool, Sherlock's first case being a drowning, them going back to the scene of the crime and once again, his best friend's life forfeit beside a body of water. It was a wonder Sherlock Holmes hadn't developed a phobia of water by now. John was brought back to the present by the commanding voice of Mycroft Holmes.

"And so John Watson, I want you to look me in the eye and tell me that Sherlock Holmes is incapable of caring. I catalogued many moments between him and Victor and the way he looks at you, John, is just as powerful as the way he used to look at that boy and his response to you leaving him is beginning to remind me of when he lost Victor. Frankly, I'm more worried about him than I've been in a long time."

"I … I don't know what to say, I … I had no idea, I …"

"No, you wouldn't would you John, not with your ordinary brain" Mycroft drawled sarcastically "Obviously Sherlock tries to rationalise absolutely everything and this leads people to believe that he's a cold, unfeeling machine, but he knows he can't fool me and to some extent Doctor, when you were living with him, he didn't fool you either.

I remember that he tried to rationalise his wish for me to save his friend over himself, by objectively placing more value on Victor's life and reasoning that more people would be deeply affected by Victor's death than his own; Sherlock places very little value on his own survival, aside from his being able to solve a case. However, I have been refuting that rationalisation with every disdainful glance and venomous word my brother has thrown at me, for the last 20 years. He simply wished me to save Victor instead of him, because he loved Victor and he would rather have died, knowing that his beloved was alive, than survive and know that he was lost to him forever. One problem Sherlock has, is that he doesn't realise how deeply _he_ affects people and the value that a loved one would place on his life. Victor loved him enough to value him above his own life. I believe you know what that's like John?"

The colour had drained from John's face now, as he began to realise just how important he was to Sherlock Holmes and how the distraction of Mary's love had dulled John's memory of the love and grief he'd felt for Sherlock these past few years.

"You see John" Mycroft continued, "It's not that Sherlock doesn't know how to care, it's just that he vowed never to care again after Victor. You changed that John and I asked you to keep an eye on him and now your commonplace idiocy has broken the heart that he thought he'd discarded long ago. If it weren't for the fact that your injury would result in mine and your death would result in his, I'd take great pleasure in torturing and murdering you." And with that Mycroft stepped back from John's personal space, waited for a few seconds for any response from the army doctor and when he received nothing, but a stricken stare in return, Mycroft strode purposefully to the door, pausing briefly and speaking without turning back towards John.

"You and Sherlock are drowning John. Perhaps this time, I can save you both."

And with that, Mycroft was gone, leaving John weak-kneed, tearful and supported only by the wall at his back.


	3. Chapter 3

When John finally felt composed enough to return to the party he looked immediately for Sherlock, they needed to talk, at least John needed to hear what his friend felt, from the man's own mouth, to be sure Mycroft hadn't misconstrued his brother's feelings. But deep down John knew, this was Mycroft Holmes, he wasn't going to be wrong. Sherlock Holmes loved him with the kind of all-consuming, fierce love, that could delight, or destroy. He thought of what he and Mary had and it paled in comparison. Dear god, now he knew this, he knew he loved Sherlock too.

Within seconds, Mrs Hudson had appeared at his elbow with a sad smile on her face, "Sherlock and Mycroft left a few minutes ago dear. Kissed me on the cheek and told me to tell you goodbye."

John gave a blank stare back at his former landlady. Why did she look at him with such pity? God, had she seen it before him? That he was in love with his former flatmate and yet he'd decided to deny those feelings and marry his second choice anyway. But then the look was gone and Mrs Hudson took John's arm and began steering across the room towards Mary. "She's been waiting ages deary. I know Sherlock and Mycroft are important to you John, but you cannot neglect your wife for them. She's the most important person in your life now."

This made John feel sick, because he knew it wasn't true; he cared about Mary deeply and she'd rescued him at such a terrible time, but nobody was more important to him than Sherlock. He suspected that Mrs Hudson was seeing the conflict within him and was choosing her words for maximum effect. Perhaps she was aware of exactly how oddly Sherlock was behaving and she knew the cause.

Once he was back beside his wife, John found he could hardly speak. Mary immediately looked concerned and grabbed his hand.

"John what is it? What did he tell you?"

"It … It's nothing to do with Mycroft" he lied "I just came over all faint, I think I might have eaten something that disagreed with me." John managed a weak smile as Mary looked uncertain. This was the first time in their relationship that John had been physically ill and she wasn't sure if it didn't have something to do with Sherlock's creepy brother. But she also trusted John. She squeezed his hand.

"Would you make excuses for me if I go to bed?"

"Of course sweetie, people will be leaving soon anyway, time's getting on. Sherlock already went home"

"I know" John's voice was barely a croak and he extracted his hand from a worried Mary, kissed her cheek and stumbled upstairs to their hotel room. He'd barely gotten through the door when he had to run to the en-suite and throw up in the sink. What the hell was he going to do? He wasn't even gay for god's sake and yet here he was, newly married to a lovely woman, but hopelessly in love with his male best friend.

Why had Mycroft told him this now, why not earlier? John had successfully pushed any romantic feelings for Sherlock Holmes well below the parapet of his perception long ago. Something resembling them had resurfaced after the fall, but John had been so confused, so conflicted by the stages of grief that he'd dismissed anything from that time as him not being able to think straight. And then he'd fallen in … in what? Certainly not 'love' with Mary, not now he examined it. It had taken months for them to get physically close and he knew that their emotional closeness was based on shared grief. Not that this couldn't engender love, but it was more like … "Oh" John groaned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He'd discarded the cane after meeting Mary, but she'd just become a human substitute for it. He'd initially thought she'd done the same as Sherlock and filled his life with something that made him forget his pain. But she hadn't, she'd just made it bearable.

John washed the sick away, swilled some toothpaste around his mouth and splashed his face with cold water. For once in his life he was stuck. The soldier in him wanted to flee from it all. Find a quiet corner of the world where he wouldn't have to tell Mary that he didn't love her and he wouldn't have to tell Sherlock that he did; John wasn't sure which of these things frightened him more. The caring man in him wanted to make both of them happy, but he had no idea how. He found some miniature bottles of spirits in the mini-bar fridge and proceeded to down them all, whilst he considered his options. An hour later, he was no close to a resolution and his head was swimming. John laid on the bed, fully clothed and stared at the ceiling, utterly lost.

He must have fallen asleep, because when he was next aware of his surroundings light was streaming through the curtains, his head was throbbing and Mary was laid beside him. During the night she'd snuggled up to him and was now draped over his supine form, legs tangled with his, head on his chest and hand over his heart. And John felt … nothing. He looked down on her curly hair and imagined that those curls belonged to someone entirely different. Desire began to unfurl in his stomach followed by a wave of disgust. 'I am not gay' he thought. It wasn't that he had any problem with homosexuality, how could he? His sister was a lesbian. He'd known gay men and gay sex to occur in the army and recognised that the sex could be separated from the sexuality. But he'd never felt desire for either, well, not until Sherlock.

Mary began to wake and John was over her in an instant, wanting to prove to himself that he still felt desire for her, that he still felt a connection that he shouldn't break, not even on Sherlock's account, that he was still firmly heterosexual. Mary moaned and giggled at John's insistent hands so early in a morning.

"John, please, let me wake up a bit first."

"No" he muttered, "want you now."

After it was over Mary once more snuggled up to John and smiled into his shoulder, tracing her fingers gently over his scar. "I love you" she whispered.

"Hmmm" was all the reply John could make, his headache had dissipated during sex, but was now creeping back. He felt, rather than saw Mary's frown, but her questioning of John's lack of response never materialised, as she noticed the bruise on his shoulder, right in the centre of his scar.

"How did you get that?"

"What?"

"The bruise" She touched his shoulder and looked him up and down "there's another on your stomach … and on your leg."

"Oh, must have got them last week when me and Sherlock were chasing that guy through the warehouse."

"No you didn't John, I'd have noticed. Why are you lying?"

"I'm not, I really don't know where I got them."

"They look like someone tried to stab you with a blunt instrument, what would …. God, did Mycroft do this?"

"No of course not" John was out of bed now and dressing, trying to keep his compsure "Just leave it Mary it's fine"

"No it's not bloody fine" She jumped out the other side of the bed and threw her dressing gown around her, "I accept that those brothers get you into dangerous situations and you might get injured, but I'll not have them hurting you themselves, that's just twisted."

"Well that's fine Mary because he didn't and neither did Sherlock, so just leave it" John's voice was becoming raised now, they were descending into their first real argument and he didn't like it one bit.

"God you sound like a victim of domestic violence; you don't have to be his pet John, you're worth just as much as he is. He's only your friend and if this is part of the pattern of your relationship before I met you, then I suggest you break your friendship now, cos if those brothers treat you as a punch bag, then they're even bigger freaks than …"

Mary screamed as one of the lamps that sat on the bedside tables exploded against the wall beside her head. She looked at John with the most incredulous expression and tears in her eyes. John was pale and trembling, his jaw set and eyes blazing. Mary didn't recognise the man in front of her.

"I'd never hurt a woman Mary, but if you ever, ever say anything like that about Sherlock again, I … I'll …" John sighed his breathing unsteady and he quickly pulled jeans and a t-shirt from his overnight bag, throwing his jacket over the top. Mary didn't move, terrified of what John might do next.

"I'm checking out" he said, his intonation flat and emotionless, "I'll see you back home." With that John was downstairs, practically flinging his key at the receptionist, before walking and walking until he found himself near Baker Street. How had that happened?

Seeing as he was here he might as well go and see Sherlock and clear this matter up once and for all. He was terrified about having this conversation, but the more he put it off, the more he'd find himself in this limbo where he'd be hurting two people who were incredibly important to him. He got himself a cup of tea from a café to dispel the last of his hangover and sat in the park, considering what he was going to say. He felt an enormous amount of guilt for scaring Mary like that. He sent her a text before discarding his cup and walking to 221B.

"I'm sorry for throwing that lamp, I was hungover and I lost it, but I aimed it to miss you, I'd NEVER EVER hurt you. You know Sherlock's like a brother to me" John winced at the blatant lie "I can't stand it when people call him a freak. Forgive me?"

Mary didn't text back, just sat looking at John's message, tears running down her face; he hadn't said "I love you." What the hell was going on?


	4. Chapter 4

Mrs Hudson was delighted to see John and offered him tea and cake, but all John wanted to do was see Sherlock.

"Well, when you boys have finished putting the world to rights, come and have afternoon tea with me" she patted John on the back, "you still don't look well deary."

John could hear the violin from the flat before he'd even set foot on the stairs, once again a wave of sickness washed over him. How was he going to approach this, with Sherlock of all people? A man for whom sentiment was dismissed as soon as it reared its head.

John pushed the door open quietly and stood watching his friend for a second, the way his shirt clung to his lithe body, the way his muscles moved as he coaxed the most beautiful tune out of the violin, a slight shimmer of sweat on the back of his neck that John wanted to …

"No, stop that" John hissed to himself, he would not think those thoughts about Sherlock, he would not.

"John, didn't your mother ever tell you that it's rude to stare?" The sonorous voice shocked John out of his silent reverie. He was about to ask how Sherlock had known he'd entered the room, but within seconds the consulting detective had cast aside his violin and strode across the room to pull his friend into a brief hug.

This had become something of a ritual ever since Sherlock's return. Ever since John had hugged him for what seemed like an eternity, after smacking him one in the face first of course. Initially, Sherlock hadn't known what to do with his hands. They'd hovered somewhere over John's back, but it had taken him an age to place them, to allow himself to touch another human being and give comfort through that touch. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to, but John wasn't letting go and he was so warm, so persuasive in his affection, that Sherlock had felt awkward, so he'd relented, placing one hand on the back of John's head and the other in the centre of his back, and 'Oh', the sense of relief that had washed over him had been incredible.

And so he repeated this gesture every time John returned to 221B, just for a few seconds, his hands falling in exactly the same place every time, as if a change to the pattern, might change the meaning. Even if John had just been downstairs to see Mrs Hudson and then back up again, he received this hug. John had found it amusing to be clasped to Sherlock's chest every time he walked in, but not today, today the gesture filled him with so many emotions he found himself choked by it.

Sherlock pulled away and briefly studied John's face.

"Sherlock I need to …"

"It can wait John, we have a case," Sherlock bounded back across the room grinning, diving for a piece of paper and holding it out to John, whilst he dragged some things from the drawer and into a bag to examine the crime scene. "You weren't here, so I took the liberty of making notes. A man was found in the Thames this morning. Lestrade wasn't going to let me look at the body as he thought it was suicide, but the brother has engaged my services, so he's going to let us have 5 minutes before they take him away."

"Drow… drowned?" John's voice was harsh in his ears. God how could Sherlock see this man and not think of Victor? How had he looked at so many drowned bodies in his time as a consulting detective and not broken down?

"Well, that's the supposition John, but the autopsy will tell them that, I need to see if the body will tell me anything else first." Sherlock turned to him then as he passed him the notes he'd made from the brother's testimony and a confused look crossed his face for a second. "That is if you're up to the task, you don't look quite well. I can't have you vomiting on my crime scene and contaminating the evidence John."

John forced a smile "I'm fine mate, just a bit hungover that's all."

"Excellent, I like having you there, as you can be positively illuminating in your stupidity sometimes."

"I'll take that as a compliment shall I and assume you're not after a smack in the chops?" Both men grinned and then Sherlock was hustling them out the door, calling to Mrs Hudson to have that afternoon tea ready for when they returned in a few hours.

"How did you know she'd offered…?"

"No time John … Taxi!"

And within a few minutes John had forgotten his turmoil, his hangover, everything except watching Sherlock run about the place at a million miles an hour, magnifying this, collecting that, sniffing the other. John just stood there beaming, supplying Sherlock with the occasional comment, or affectionate insult and reveling in the fact that everything seemed so normal again. Surely Mycroft had been wrong, surely …

And then he noticed it, when Sherlock stood up and asked Lestrade to take him to the brother who'd engaged him in the first place, a thin sheen of sweat that covered Sherlock's forehead, on a cold day, the slightly dilated appearance of his pupils and almost imperceptible tremor in his hand. Sherlock Holmes was high.

Sherlock noticed the moment John figured it out and his only response was to grin at his blogger and stride off to the waiting police cars. "I sincerely hope it isn't the brother John, because otherwise this case will have been very dull indeed."

"Sherlock are you …?"

"No time John" and he held open the door of Donovan's car, practically bundling John inside, before shutting it and striding off to Lestrade's car instead.

"Stubborn bastard" John muttered under his breath

"What's the freak done to you now?" Donovan sighed.

"Just shut up Sally" John growled menacingly.

"Oi! Do I need to remind you that I'm a police officer?"

"Act like one then, Lestrade's already set off and you don't know where you're going do you?"

"Shit" she ragged the gears into position and roared off in pursuit, John in the back seat, seething and all but forgotten about.

In the end it turned out that it wasn't the brother, but the brother's girlfriend. She'd been having an affair with the dead man and when he'd come to her office late one night to suggest telling his brother about them, she'd lost her temper. She killed him in a fit of rage, with a blow to the back of the neck and then pushed him out of her office window into the Thames. The cold water had prevented all but the most superficial of bruises from forming over his cervical vertebrae and because he hadn't died instantly, there was enough water in his lungs to make it look like a drowning. It seemed she was prone to such outbursts, as when they'd tracked her down to her office, she'd tried to stab Sherlock with a pair of scissors, thinking he was the only person who'd come to confront her, not realising John and Scotland Yard's finest were outside. She'd nicked Sherlock's chest in the struggle, but he was otherwise unharmed, in fact he seemed more concerned about the slash in his shirt than the one on his skin.

By the time Sherlock was patched up and they were back in Baker Street, John had almost forgotten about his dilemma and his fight with Mary, well, almost. He tried to call her whilst having supper with Mrs Hudson, but she wasn't picking up. He sadly trudged back into Mrs Hudson's kitchen, to another inscrutable look from Sherlock, who was currently eating a scone at John's insistence.

"What's wrong deary, have you and Mary fallen out?" Mrs Hudson cooed affectionately.

"Not really" John sighed, "but I'll have to go back now, we should probably talk."

"But John it's barely 8pm."

"Exactly Sherlock" John couldn't help smiling "That's the last 10 hours I've spent with you and none with my new wife."

"Well, just a few more minutes John, I have your favourite whiskey upstairs and I believe you wished to tell me something this morning."

"John felt sick again, but he knew that he if he didn't do this now, he might not find the courage again."

Mrs Hudson smiled as her boys left her flat, Sherlock bounding upstairs without so much as a goodbye and John stopping to thank her and kiss her on the cheek. She made him pause for a second with her hand on his arm "You make sure he's looking after himself dear, I don't think he ate at all last week. He fainted whilst doing an experiment. Worried me sick it did and I was going to call you, but Mycroft made me promise not to tell. But then, seeing him so happy tonight, seeing how you can make him eat, I thought it best to let you know."

John's face drained of colour again. But he smiled for Mrs Hudson's sake and patted her hand. "Of course. Thanks." He followed Sherlock up the stairs in time to be enveloped in another hug and have a glass of whiskey shoved into his hand. Sherlock bounded over to the sofa and flung himself onto it dramatically, his gaze entirely focused on John, whose hand had begun to tremble. John took a deep breath and knocked back the whiskey, ignoring Sherlock's gesture for him to sit in his chair.

"Were you high today Sherlock?"

"That wasn't what you wanted to talk to me about this morning John, you …"

"Shut up, I know, but were you?" John let his anger show, clenching his fist. How could such a genius be so reckless with his own body.

"I might have indulged in a small amount of cocaine to allow me to continue without sleep for a while longer."

"You fucking idiot" John breathed out quietly, "How long have you been doing this?"

"Only for a few weeks" Sherlock took a sip of his whiskey and seemed bored by this conversation. "I've found that I'm not quite as good at going without sleep as I used to be John, in fact I seem overcome with quite a lethargy recently."

John drew in a shaky breath, he knew that Sherlock was referring to a symptom of depression, but had he connected this with John's departure? Did he even realise he was depressed?

"Don't Sherlock, please don't do drugs."

"Everybody _does_ drugs John, we're indulging in a drug at this very second" he swirled the whiskey around his glass with a mischievous look in his eyes, "But what was it you wanted … ?"

"Don't" John slammed his glass down on the desk and strode over to stand just feet from Sherlock "Don't rationalise it and don't change the bloody subject, you know what I mean. Cocaine off the street is cut with allsorts of crap, not to mention how much that shit damages your heart and brain. But you know that don't you and you're just being reckless, cos you don't care about your body at all." John unclenched his fists and sighed then, noticing how Sherlock was sneering and trying to take a different tack with his friend. "Look, Sherlock if you're depressed …"

The laugh echoed around the flat and Sherlock leapt to his feet, flinging his glass to one side and standing just inches from John.

"Why would I be depressed John? I have everything back, my experiments, my cases, my skull …"

"You don't have me." John's voice was so small, even he was uncertain that he'd spoken the words, but the way the slight colour Sherlock possessed drained from his face assured him that he had indeed spoken. In an instant Sherlock was closer than before and looking wild eyed, almost angrily into John's face.

"And why would I _need_ you John?"

"Sherlock" John felt sick with what he was about to say, but he had to know "Mycroft told me … he … he told me about Vict…"

And then John was pinned against the wall at the opposite side of the room wondering how the hell he'd gotten there and all he could see was Sherlock's face, their noses almost touching, his eyes murderous. Sherlock's hands were gripping his biceps painfully and almost lifting him off the floor.

"Don't you dare John. Don't. You. Dare!" And then there were tears, honest to god tears in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

John hadn't counted those tears he'd seen Sherlock shed on the roof of Barts, as the man himself had confessed they'd been faked. But now, knowing what he knew, John wasn't so sure and if they'd been real that meant the only times Sherlock had been known to cry had been for Victor and for him.

The power of Sherlock's emotions took John's breath away and he simply wasn't sure what would happen next, Sherlock could kiss him, or kill him and John wasn't sure if he'd try to resist either gesture. But suddenly he could see the room again and Sherlock was way over the other side, like he'd dematerialised. John wouldn't put it past the man to be able to do just that.

All the tension was gone from his body now and the consulting detective stared nonchalantly out of the window, his back to John.

"I'd like you to leave Doctor Watson and don't bother coming back, we're no longer friends."

"Wh .. what? Sherlock! I'm sorry I didn't think …"

"That's right, you rarely _think_, your tiny brain is just like everyone else's. I'm amazed I didn't see how dull you were before, but well, my mistake." Sherlock sounded so calm that he could have been reciting a recipe. "I'll pack the few things of yours that remain here and leave them with Mrs Hudson for you to collect."

"Sherlock please, god, please don't do this." John rushed across the room and tried to grab Sherlock's arm to turn him around, but the man was too quick for him and John found himself sprawled on the floor, bleeding from his lip before he'd even registered the movement. And now Sherlock was breathing angrily again, looking for all the world like he despised even the thought of John Watson.

"I told you to leave. This is my flat and if you don't get out, I'll be forced to call the police."

"Sherlock" John's voice was barely a whisper now and his vision blurred "I love you."

Sherlock looked almost amused as he stared down at his now former friend and blogger. "Sentiment?" he sneered "Really John? How tedious." And with that Sherlock strode calmly out of the room and shut himself in his bedroom.

John spent until midnight knocking on the door, he sat by it when his knuckles got too sore and just spoke, careful not to mention any of the story Mycroft had told him, or Victor's name, but just going through their past cases, asking Sherlock if he remembered everything that John had done for him and vice versa. And then he got angry, started telling Sherlock exactly what he'd gone through when the detective had faked his death. Telling him how much it had made him realise what he'd had and what he'd lost. Telling him that Sherlock owed him big time for that. Then telling him that Mary had been a mistake, he'd give her up, if only Sherlock would talk to him. Downstairs Mrs Hudson turned the TV up and hoped they'd reconcile, hoped that John would see sense and leave Mary and that Sherlock would stop being such a martyr.

At around midnight a note was pushed under the door. John's heart leapt and then promptly broke again.

"I believe I asked you to leave over three hours ago. I have decided the police would be rather melodramatic, so I've texted Mycroft. Goodbye Doctor Watson, it was mildly diverting while it lasted, but do not attempt to contact me again."

And almost like the devil himself, Mycroft appeared on the landing.

"Come now John, this is rather undignified don't you think. I shall give you a lift home. I've taken the liberty of speaking to Mary and she is more than willing to forgive your little outburst this morning."

John just stared at Mycroft blankly for a moment, but he was emotionally shattered, he could only acquiesce to the elder Holmes and allow himself to be hauled to his feet.

The ride back to John's house was silent, save for when he exited the car. "It's regrettable John, as I was rather fond of you. But of course, he is my brother. Do as he told you from here on in, otherwise I may get rather angry." And with that the door was slammed shut and the car drove off.

John swallowed the rising lump in his throat and trudged wearily up the path. Mary opened the door before he reached it, the warmth and light of his home enveloping him as he stepped through and then Mary's arms were around him and she was crying; John couldn't feel anything, except empty inside. Mary pulled him over to the sofa and passed him a cup of tea. He wouldn't look at her, just stared into space.

"John, _please_ tell me what's happened. Mycroft said he told you something last night that you couldn't tell me, but please, what does it mean for us? I need to know."

"Sher … he … he never wants to see me again." John sounded incredulous, like he didn't even believe it himself.

"Us John, what does it mean for us?" And then the tears came, John buried his face in Mary's shoulder and wept. Repeating "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over. And Mary's heart broke for him, as well as for herself.


	5. Chapter 5

Mrs Mary Watson steeled herself outside the front door of 221B Baker Street. It had been three months since Sherlock had cut off all contact with John and her husband was a broken man once more.

Of course John tried to put a brave face on things and after the night he'd come home and sobbed in her arms, an outsider might not have known things were any different. He'd gotten up that morning, gotten ready, kissed Mary goodbye, gone out to work and then everything had carried on as normal. He'd never answered Mary's question, about what circumstances now meant for them and every time she'd tried to broach the subject, she'd ended up with John making love to her, as if to prove that this is what it meant; they were together and that was all that mattered to him.

But that wasn't enough for Mary, because John never told her that he loved her any more and when they were together, there was a distant look in his eyes. But it had taken her a couple of weeks to work out what really bothered her about John now; he didn't laugh. He smiled, was pleasant to everyone he met, but the smile never reached his eyes; he was miserable. Mary tried to think when she'd last seen John laugh and then she remembered, he hadn't laughed when she'd first met him either. He only started showing genuine happiness when Sherlock had returned. But this was just further confirmation of what she already knew. So, despite John insisting that everything was fine and that Mary should get on and plan their honeymoon, she knew what she had to do.

She'd been planning to come here now for a couple of weeks, and standing outside the front door she was full of emotion. This was the first time she'd been back here since the day she met John and now she wasn't sure how she felt about that incident any more. She knocked cautiously on the door and Mrs Hudson opened it a few seconds later.

"Mary" the woman embraced her sweetly and Mary just managed to hold things together and ask to see Sherlock.

"No matter how many times I tell that boy that I'm not his housekeeper, he still has me answering the door for him." Mary smiled weakly and started for the stairs. "Erm, just a second deary." Mrs Hudson touched her gently on the arm. "Is this about John?"

Mary's faced blanched and she nodded, "Yes, why?"

"Oh, if you can do something." tears sprang up in the older woman's eyes "It's just that, I'm afraid Sherlock is going to pine to death up there. He's practically stopped eating altogether and when I try to talk to him about it, he dismisses me, and then when I don't talk to him about it, he'll come and seek me out and hug me like a child wanting his mother and I honestly have to sit and stroke his hair until he falls asleep. It's horrible watching such a brilliant man waste away like a sick little boy. The only time he's back to his usual self is when he gets a case, but then he's too weak to do anything. That inspector he works with keeps sending him home."

Mary felt a flash of pity for the man, but then reminded herself what he'd done to her and John's happiness and she let that conflict rage within her once more.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you dear, and it'll help John too, which is why you're here of course. When he meets me, I can see how badly it affects him. What in the world they've fought about I don't know, but nothing can be so bad as to keep them apart if they're so miserable without each other. Oh dear …" and with that Mrs Hudson rushed back into her flat, dabbing a handkerchief to her eyes.

Mary steeled herself and began to climb the stairs, only to find that the door at the top had been flung wide open, where before it was closed. This made her even more apprehensive as she crossed the threshold, almost as if she was expecting an attack of some sort.

"Mrs Watson, how unwelcome to see you, won't you stand right there and make this quick, I'm busy."

Mary gasped to see Sherlock, sat at his microscope at the kitchen table. He looked terminally ill. There were huge rings circling his eyes, his skin was almost translucent and he was so thin, she feared he'd snap if she touched him. Pity threatened to overwhelm her, but she rallied herself once again. Sherlock would not respond to a weak woman.

"I've come to tell you that I hate you Mr Holmes."

"Good, will that be all?" Sherlock rose from his chair, but did so too quickly and as dizziness threatened to unbalance him, he sat down again. "Please, show yourself out, I find I've forgotten to eat again and am quite fatigued."

"I will not. Not until you hear what you've done to John."

"Yes, he's upset. So what? He'll get over it."

"No he won't Sherlock." She raised her voice now and stared angrily at the stubborn man in front of her. "You didn't see him after you supposedly died, but I met him not long after, so I know; he didn't eat, he had nightmares, he was so depressed that sometimes he'd sit there for hours just staring into space and he used to mutter to himself, talking to you, constantly, and he didn't even realise he was doing it. I know that after a while he seemed better with me, but I didn't make him truly happy, I just dulled the pain." Sherlock huffed and began looking in his microscope again, but Mary knew he was hearing her, just being stubborn about it. "You know that until you came back he never laughed, not once. And now he's like that again. He's dead behind the eyes Sherlock and it's all your fault."

"So you have a broken soldier for a husband. What is that to me?" He waved his hand at Mary and didn't look up from his microscope.

"You broke him," she screamed suddenly causing Sherlock to look up and sneer.

"Please, do keep your voice down and refrain from causing a scene. Some of us have to live here."

"This is why I hate you Sherlock, you're such a stubborn, petulant, little boy. For all that genius you really are an odious human being."

"Yes, so I've been told, many times. Should it bother me?"

"No, I don't suppose you care. But it bothers John. Because with him you're someone different. With him you're who you really are, not this mechanised façade you present to the rest of the world. You choose to make people hate you, Sherlock, and that makes me pity you as well." Sherlock laughed then, but Mary smiled as she could see the laugh wasn't genuine and that she might be getting to him somehow.

"Look at you, sat there, pretending that John leaving you has had no effect, but you're killing yourself over it. He's doing the same and you're both pretending not to care and it's the most pathetic thing I've ever seen. Neither one of you is brave enough to admit to this thing between you and so you drag everyone else into your pit of misery. Well I've had enough."

"Good! Well as illuminating as this has been, I find I'm quite tired. So please close the door on your way out, there's such a draught otherwise."

Sherlock just watched as Mary marched across the room towards him and struck him hard across the face. He turned back to her with a poisonous look, but made no move to retaliate.

"You will listen" she hissed with tears in her eyes "A few months ago when he came home and cried because of what you'd done, I despised you for hurting him and coming between us. But then I thought about circumstances and I realised that this was my mistake. I should have known that I never had any claim on John Watson. You met him first, you lost 3 years of your life to protect him and all he ever spoke about was you. I fell for him because he seemed like such a good man, but any fool could see that he was your good man, even if he denied that to himself and you ran away from it. If you'd never come back, we might have been happy, but you came back for him. You might have told him, in fact, you might have told yourself, that it was because his life was in danger, but then why let him know you were alive? You could have dispatched the enemy without ever telling John. I'm not a fool Sherlock, I know you love him. So I'm begging you to admit it now, because there's an extraordinary, beautiful, amazing man pining away right before my eyes and it's heartbreaking."

Sherlock's face was impassive, but Mary thought she could detect a flicker of something in his eyes. The two regarded each other for a long time in silence, until Sherlock seemed to physically wither in the heat of Mary's gaze. Eventually he spoke.

"And what good does any of this do when John is yours?"

"But he isn't, not any more. When he went to work this morning I packed our things, had the locks changed and I'm on my way to the airport to stay with my sister in Spain. I'll file for a divorce from there. I've been planning this for a fortnight and my mind is made up; so unless you want John to sleep rough tonight, I suggest you let him back in here. His possessions, such as they are, have been left in the hallway by my taxi driver."

Sherlock's eyes flashed with some nameless emotion again and Mary could see that he was struggling to stay composed now.

"He won't come here, I told him to stay away and I believe Mycroft threatened him to do the same."

"On the contrary, Mycroft will be the one bringing him here."

Sherlock stood then, his face an expression of amazement.

"So, I've surprised the great Sherlock Holmes" Mary smiled sadly, "your brother isn't hard to find you know if you ask around Westminster. And I rather think he wanted to help me; he seems to like John very much."

Sherlock didn't say a word, just stood looking at Mary with a curious expression and Mary shivered slightly, feeling as though he were dissecting her with his eyes. It was unnerving.

"I … I gather Mycroft told John a story" Sherlock flinched then and tensed, almost like a tiger getting ready to pounce. "I don't know it and I don't wish to, suffice to say that if the reason you're pushing John away is because of some tragedy in your past, then you're the biggest idiot of all."

Mary turned then, the tension rushing out of her body and her composure gone to be replaced by tears. She reached the door and turned to look at Sherlock once more, but gasped when he appeared right beside her. How had he done that? And suddenly she was in his arms and being crushed by that all too thin frame. She had the distinct sensation of being prey to a snake, but then he spoke.

"Thank you" It was all he said, the noise rumbling through his chest and into her ears, then he let her go and made his way back to the table and the microscope, ignoring her once again.

"You … you're welcome" It was the oddest thing, an all too polite exchange, as if she'd just sold an item of furniture, not given up the man she loved and her hopes for their future together. But she had one last thing to say.

"And Sherlock, I realise your brother is a very powerful man, but if you ever hurt John Watson again, I promise you that I'll find you and cut out your heart."

"I've been reliably informed …" But when Sherlock looked up, she'd gone.

" … that I don't have one." He finished and then stayed staring at the door, "But I think they might have been wrong."


	6. Chapter 6

**Slightly longer last chapter. Not sure I've got the characters entirely right, but I'm working on it for the next one.**

John got off the bus and strolled slowly home. Another night, another series of polite exchanges with Mary and the guilt of knowing that he was breaking a good woman's heart slowly. If only this damn fog of grief would lift from him, things might be able to go back to normal between them. As it was, he just felt empty all the time and like he was under water, as if all his sensory perception was dulled. He kept telling himself to hate Sherlock, that a man so cold must have been a sociopath all along and what they'd shared was just an act. But that made things worse; to think he'd wasted five years of his life following, mourning and rejoicing in a man who didn't really exist was heartbreaking. No, he had to believe that time would sort things out, that Sherlock might send him a text soon that just said 'case' and they would carry on like nothing had happened. Why had one mention of Victor destroyed everything? John could feel another lump forming in his throat and took some deep breaths. He didn't cry at home. He focused on Mary and didn't think about Sherlock at all, that was how he got through. His break times at work were where he allowed himself tears, locked away in his examination room, and this was why he'd stopped allowing himself breaks too.

He turned the corner into his street and saw Mycroft's car and his house in darkness. John's legs went weak and then he was running. Mycroft got out, "You bastard" John yelled "what have you done to her? I stayed away, I didn't go near him. You…"

"Calm down John, Mary is fine."

"Then where is she?" He ran up the driveway and tried opening the door, but his key wouldn't fit the lock. It took him a few attempts to realise that the key and the lock were different and then he stepped back on the driveway, confused, thinking he might have gotten the wrong house.

"She left this afternoon" Mycroft's deep and matter of fact voice cut through John's confusion. "She called me here to wait for you; she's gone to her sister's in Spain. She's had the locks changed and will be filing for a divorce. Naturally, everything you owned here will be split 50:50, but she wants nothing more to do with you."

John's small cry of grief was almost lost in Mycroft's coat, as his legs gave out and he fell into the taller man's arms.

"But you are not cut adrift John." Mycroft quickly reassured him, "I'm here to take you to Sherlock."

Nothing happened for the longest time, John continued clinging to Mycroft's coat until he felt able to stand, but he didn't cry, just breathed heavily, like he was getting over a panic attack.

"Are you ready John? Please don't hyperventilate on the way, I don't wish to deliver you to my brother as a corpse."

"Would he know the difference?" John huffed out, allowing himself a mirthless laugh.

"Quite" Mycroft smiled as he pushed the army doctor away from him. "Shall we go?"

As they pulled up outside 221B John could feel himself trembling. This had obviously been concocted in some way by Mycroft, but would Sherlock even want to see him? He might be forced to spend the night on Mrs Hudson's couch and then be without either Sherlock, or Mary for the rest of his life. Mycroft must have sensed his unease.

"He will know by now that you're coming home John. Mary sorted everything and delivered your possessions to him; I'm just a pawn in her game this time. Quite a remarkable woman in the end, I can see why you liked her, but still, a life of domesticity would have made you miserable."

"Mycroft" John said his name in lieu of goodbye and managed to step out of the car looking for all the world as impassive as Sherlock did when he was thinking. Mycroft thought once more how much he admired John Watson. The man was not afraid of displaying such fierce emotions and yet, he could be brave and emotionless when the need arose. In that way, he was so much stronger than Sherlock, who denied every emotion and let them eat away at him until he was almost consumed.

John opened the door with the key he'd never discarded and shut it quietly, he didn't want to see Mrs Hudson right away, as he feared he might not be able to keep his composure. He crept up the stairs and paused at the door of 221B. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open.

The lights were low, just the lamp over the desk was on and the fire was flickering, casting an eerie glow over everything. The skull grinned back at him from the mantelpiece and John couldn't help but smile at the familiarity of it all.

"Hello John." The deep voice came from over by the window, behind the glow of the lamp. And John could just about make out Sherlock's silhouette.

"Hi." It was all John could say, he had no idea how to respond otherwise.

Both men stood there for the longest time, regarding one another and then Sherlock stepped into the light and John's face became a mask of concern. The man looked ill.

"Oh Sherlock, you idiot" and John was across the room in an instant, gathering the skeletal form of his best friend into his arms and sighing with relief into his chest. He felt Sherlock relax into his embrace and place his hands once more in their familiar spots, but this time, Sherlock began stroking those hands over John's head and back and didn't pull away after a few seconds.

Neither man could speak at first, until John felt Sherlock almost falling asleep on him and pulled out of the taller man's embrace.

"Over here" John said softly, guiding Sherlock to the sofa and then going to the kitchen to make tea. Sherlock sat there and stared at John, not taking his eyes off him and hardly blinking until John sat down beside him and passed him a cup of tea and a biscuit. "Before we talk, you're having these."

John flicked the TV on and tried to concentrate on it, but as Sherlock ate and drank he never took his eyes off John and eventually the smaller man began to laugh softly. He turned to look at Sherlock and took the empty cup from his hands, setting it on the table. "Are you just going to stare at me all night, or are you going to say anything?"

"Does it bother you?"

"I do find a little unnerving, yes."

Sherlock reached out then and began tracing John's face with his fingers. The army doctor gasped at that first contact and tensed up slightly. He knew he loved Sherlock, but was he ready for there to be a physical manifestation of that love? He wasn't sure. But the consulting detective's fingers felt incredible on his face, as if they were cataloguing every single pore, as if they were playing him like he played his violin. They ghosted over his lips and paused there and John realised that he'd closed his eyes. He opened them to find Sherlock's face mere millimeters from his own and brought his hands up to rest on his best friend's shoulders. John felt his face flush and searched Sherlock's eyes for any sign of his emotions. His pupils were dilated, speaking to his arousal, but that was all he could deduce and John decided that there was no other logical next step for him but this. He might be terrified, he might not be gay, but damn him if he didn't want to kiss Sherlock Holmes. John nodded almost imperceptibly, and before he'd even finished, Sherlock's lips were pressed against his.

The first sensation John got was scent. Sherlock's skin smelled like cinnamon, freshly cut grass and a mixture of different, but not unpleasant, chemicals. It wasn't a combination John had ever considered before, but it made his insides flip and he decided he wanted to smell that scent every day for the rest of his life. His mouth opened against Sherlock's and he ran his tongue over the detective's full lower lip, teasing it into his mouth and biting gently on it. Sherlock moaned and the noise took John's breath away. To be able to do that to the normally composed machine that was Sherlock Holmes made him feel god-like. Then both men's mouths were opened against one another's, their tongues battling lazily for dominance and John could taste tea, biscuit and something indescribably Sherlock, that made him dizzy. John pushed Sherlock back against the couch and straddled him, so they weren't having to turn their heads. He pulled back briefly to look into the eyes of the man he adored and the sight filled him with a rush similar to falling over the edge of a rollercoaster. Sherlock's pupils were dilated, his mouth was slack and his face slightly flushed. He was breathing heavier than usual and his hands were shaking as they rested on John's back. John suddenly considered that this might be a bit overwhelming for a man that didn't usually allow himself to feel emotions. He reached up to brush his fingertips over Sherlock's perfectly sculpted face.

"Are you alright? We can slow down if you want?"

"John" It was all he could say for a few seconds, looking almost confused as he tried to respond.

"It's ok Sherlock, take your time" And he leaned forward to press a chaste kiss beside the younger man's open mouth.

"It's been 20 years John, since … I haven't … I've only ever kissed … and I've never …" And Sherlock Holmes looked like he was going to panic and run away again.

"Sshhhh" John soothed him by cupping his face and stroking his thumbs over his eyelids. "Keep your eyes closed, listen to me" Sherlock did as he was told, which sent another thrill through John, he'd never known him this biddable before. "You trust me don't you?"

"Yes, always John" Sherlock's voice was a low whisper, but he seemed calmer already.

"Good, then you know I'd never hurt you."

"Of course."

"Right, so this … this thing between us, you're in control of it. If you want to stop, just say 'stop', if you want more, just say 'more'. And it's going to be incredible Sherlock, but you just need to relax. Ok?"

"John" He breathed his name again, his eyes opening in an expression of amazement. Here was this army doctor, a man who'd seemed secure in his heterosexuality, a man who'd been through hell in the last few years and had lost his wife and the certainty of his future, all in one day and he was calming the usually placid and emotionless Sherlock Holmes; the very man who's fault this all was.

"You will always surprise me John" Sherlock reached out and began stroking John's face once more. "Why do you care so much? After everything I've done to you?"

John smiled, "Because without you I'd be dead. Before I met you I'd stare every morning at my gun and think how easy it would be to take my own life. You gave me back that life Sherlock. You've put me through some horrible ordeals, but you've always tried your best for me and if everything that's been done has led to this point, then it's all been worth it. I love you. I think I always have and every day we spend together, I can't quite believe that someone as amazing as you wants to spend time with someone as ordinary as me."

Sherlock looked stunned for a second and then he smiled "John, I have never thought you ordinary. I may not ever tell you enough. I may insult your intelligence and ignore you for hours on end and I'm a positive nightmare as a friend and a flatmate, but I want you to know that, I didn't mean a word of what I said when I told you to leave. Always know John, that you are the only person who truly matters to me. I may not be able to adequately imagine how much my words hurt you, but I saw something in your eyes that night that I never wish to see again and I am more sorry than you can ever imagine. John I …"

Sherlock was babbling now, becoming agitated, perhaps scared John would run away if he didn't apologise enough.

"Ssshhh!" John placed a finger lightly over Sherlock's lips, followed by a kiss. "I know and I'm sorry too. I had no idea that one mention of your past would hurt you so much." Sherlock frowned and his eyes misted over again.

"It… it wasn't that you mentioned him John, it was that you knew how much he meant to me and I thought you'd pity me. Or that you'd realise that you meant the same, but that you were going to leave me for Mary anyway."

"I told you that night that I would have given her up for you Sherlock."

"No, no you wouldn't have. It had to be her choice, you are too honourable John. And even if you had, you'd have been miserable with me, knowing that you'd jilted her."

John sighed and smiled, perhaps Sherlock did know him better than he knew himself, but if that was the case, John knew the same of Sherlock.

"I thought that you were scared I'd discovered a weakness within you and that I might exploit it."

The younger man nodded sadly. "You still might, but this is preferable to what I was going through to avoid giving in to these feelings for you John. I was ready to let death claim me, but no doubt my brother would have prevented that once more."

"I would never.." John's voice cracked as he tried to smooth away the sadness in Sherlock's face with his fingers and lips, he whispered in his ear. "I would never, ever use your past against you Sherlock and I will never, ever use the threat of my leaving to force you to do anything." John pulled back to look into Sherlock's eyes. "I promise, I will never leave you of my own volition."

"And I promise the same" He linked his fingers through John's then and examined their joined hands with fascination before smiling and leaning forward to capture John's mouth once more in a long, languid kiss. When they pulled away breathless, it was obvious that both men wished to take things further, but neither seemed brave enough to make the first move. That was until John began kissing Sherlock's neck and the resulting groan had John forgetting his apprehension and his inhibitions.

"Bedroom" he whispered hoarsely, pulling Sherlock to his feet and then proceeding to stumble backwards to Sherlock's room, it being the nearest. Stumbling because the consulting detective refused to relinquish contact with John's mouth for even a second.

It didn't surprise John that he was the more dominant one in the bedroom. He'd been reluctant to go all the way at first, but Sherlock had insisted, in his broken and breathless way, that he'd wanted John to take things further. The implication was clear in his insistent kisses, 'we might die tomorrow, tonight could be all we have'.

After it was over and John had cleaned them both up, they lay together in a tangle of limbs and lazy kisses. Sherlock was fighting sleep with every cell in his body and John was amused at the way he kept nodding off then jolting awake.

"Just let yourself sleep Sherlock, I'll stay with you, I promise."

"I need to know … this isn't easy to say John … I … uh!" Sherlock huffed out a frustrated sigh and turned to nuzzle into John's neck. "What have you done to me John Watson, I can't speak?"

"Sherlock" John reached up and tilted Sherlock's face to look at him properly. It was the first time he'd ever seen Sherlock Holmes embarrassed. He kissed him on the forehead in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.

"No, this isn't just a one night stand, yes, I'm moving back in, yes I'm going to help you with cases again and yes, I do love you. Have I answered your questions and will you sleep now?"

Sherlock couldn't help laughing. "That was worthy of me John, but inaccurate as usual" and then his gaze softened, something which John thought he might never get used to and another kiss was exchanged. "I was about to say that I can't change for you; I'll ignore you when I'm working, I'll be rude and inconsiderate, I'll be reckless, I'll be egocentric, I'll be possessive and jealous with you and I'll …."

"Sherlock" John propped himself up on one elbow now to look concerned at his new lover. "I know all that. Love isn't about getting people to change, I know what you're like and I wouldn't have it any other way."

Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled, pursing his lips slightly in expectation of a kiss. John laughed softly and placing one hand over his lovers heart, he leaned in and gently kissed Sherlock's lips, lingering there just long enough to breathe in his beautiful scent. He thought about the past few weeks and he knew he'd miss Mary in the immediate future, but he knew it would pass. And he knew that he wouldn't change anything for this love, this co-dependency, this intense passion between him and Sherlock. To be wanted, no, needed, so much and to need another just as badly, was like nothing he'd ever experienced in his life. But there was still one thing on his mind that he had to express whilst Sherlock was in such a docile state and he had to choose his words carefully this time.

"Sherlock, if you ever want to talk about your past, I'll be here, just to listen and nothing else. If that's what you want."

Sherlock's eyes flew open for a second and he stared somewhere past John, causing the older man to tense and wait for a reaction, but Sherlock smiled faintly and nodded slowly, before turning his gaze on John once again.

"The only thing I wish to say on the matter, John, is that had it not happened and had your past also not been so fraught with death and sadness, then neither one of us would be in this situation now. So, for that reason, I no longer wish to engage in the futile desire to change what has gone before. I accept it. I may even be ready to forgive Mycroft, as his actions that day allowed me this future." John smiled.

"Good, that's good Sherlock." He said softly, and then he thought for a second "Still, you won't be inviting him round will you?"

"Dear god no, the man's an insufferable arse and I can't stand him."

Both men burst out laughing then and John buried his face in Sherlock's neck and wondered if this sudden happiness might be a dream. If it was, he hoped he'd die and remain in it forever. The sight of Sherlock pulling away and putting on his petulant child face was enough to ensure John that this was real however.

"More kisses John" and he pursed his perfect lips and waited for John to respond.

"You're such a baby sometimes, Sherlock." John chuckled, but kissed him nontheless "So maybe I should treat you like one eh? Go to sleep and tomorrow, you're eating a proper meal." John laid back down and turning on his side felt Sherlock spoon behind him and grin into his neck. The silence lasted a few minutes, enough time for John to drift into the first stages of sleep and then he felt a soft kiss beneath his ear. Perhaps thinking the doctor was asleep, Sherlock spoke, before succumbing to slumber himself.

"I'm nothing without you John."

John smiled and thought that might be the closest he would ever get to an 'I love you' from Sherlock Holmes. But, the way Sherlock told him he cared, meant so much more than those three little words.

**The end**


End file.
